


Vincent's Actual Job (He is a Motherfucking Liar™)

by littlemissvincentvega



Series: Vince's Princess ♥ [33]
Category: Pulp Fiction (1994)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemissvincentvega/pseuds/littlemissvincentvega
Summary: 'do you think you could write about vincent explaining to his girl that he’s a hitman?' - req by anon on tumblr :^)) such a great idea, thank you !!!!!
Relationships: Vincent Vega/You
Series: Vince's Princess ♥ [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1315475
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Vincent's Actual Job (He is a Motherfucking Liar™)

“Can I get you a drink first?”

You stare at him. “When have you _ever_ offered me a drink aside from when I’m mad at you or you want something off of me?”

You’re sitting on Vincent’s couch, legs crossed, watching him slowly pace the room. He halts when you question his motive: “I was just bein’ polite.”

“That’s not like you, though; that’s what I mean. Can you just spill the beans? What’s this all about?” 

He had called you, asking for you to go round later that day. And now it was later. Apparently he had something to tell you, something that couldn’t wait ‘any longer’ (his words). But Vincent was so vague on the phone that you literally had no idea what he was hinting at _(”Vince, what the hell? Are you high or something?")._

“You want a cigarette?” 

“. . . no, I don’t,” you answer rather bluntly, moving to fold your arms. You’re eyeing him now, meeting his gaze properly. There’s usually not much going on behind his eyes, but there’s a sheepish glaze to them right now. “Can you just sit with me and-- and get it over with? You’re actually starting to piss me off.”

The ~~(hit)~~ man stares at you briefly, then gives a slight nod. He takes a tentative seat beside you, slowly lowers himself onto the couch. Guilt taints his features. 

After a quiet, deep breath, he speaks. Baby blues meet your confused gaze. “So. . . it’s a li’l difficult to explain, honeypot. But I’ll try, and you gotta promise to not freak out.”

A frown creeps onto your face. Brows furrowing with slight distrust, you hold his stare. “I mean. . . I’ll promise to _try?”_

He decides that that’s good enough (he knows how stubborn you are; he’s not gonna get anything more out of you than that) and gently takes your hand, gazing down at it with those damned sheepish eyes. “You remember our first date?”

“At Jack Rabbit Slims; of course I do,” you confirm, a smile gracing your lips. It eases your frown, softens your features.

“Y’know how I told you--” He pauses, purses his lips, looks off to one side. _He’s avoiding your eye._ “--I told you I managed The Golden Arrow?” 

The furrowed brows return as you give a slow nod. Yes, you had asked him what he did for a living. 

_(”I, uh, I don’t wanna brag." He gave a chuckle, taking a coy drag of his cigarette._

_“Oh, come on, tell me. I’ll tell you somethin’ braggy in return," you promised, flashing him a grin.  
_

_He held his hands up in surrender, “Alright, alright. I manage a bar. It’s not well-known. . . I don’t think you’ll’ve heard of it.” He grinned, “Mostly older guys there. Not pretty ladies like yourself.”)_

His expression has changed now-- his whole demeanour, almost. He seems nervous. Nervous like before you’re about to rip off a band-aid that’s been sitting on that awful wound for two weeks. Nervous like that.

Vincent presses his lips together, meeting your gaze. Yes, he’s terrified, you can see it now. You can see right through him. “I’m. . . ‘m a bad man, (Y/N).”

No follow up.

A sinking feeling in your chest becomes apparent, then, and your eyes dart across his features, as if by some strange prodigy you’ll know exactly what he’s thinking. 

“What?”

“I’m not a manager.” A quick pause. “The bar doesn’t even exist. Or, if it does, I sure as fuck don’t work there.”

Your hold on his hand loosens a little, and you actually feel yourself edging away from him. Not much-- less than a centimetre, in fact. You hadn’t purposely done it; it was the fight or flight within you that had. “What do you mean?”

“No, no, you don’t--” Vincent shuffles closer to you, taking your hand in both of his now. He brushes his thumb along it, leaning back slightly to meet your gaze, “--you don’t need to be scared of me, sweetheart. You know I wouldn’t do anythin’ to hurt you.” He holds your gaze, sincerity gracing both his voice and eyes. “Right?”

You trust him. Somehow. “I know, Vince, jeez,” you sigh, unable to follow his kindness up without any sarcasm. Hearing & seeing him be so serious is almost foreign to you-- usually he’s all for teasing you, seeing how much he can annoy you. Smug is definitely the word. 

He cracks a small smile, one corner of his mouth turning up. “Fuck you. Last time I say anythin’ nice to you.”

It was clear from the first time you met that Vincent isn’t really one that’s comfortable talking about his feelings. Was this conversation about feelings? Maybe, maybe not. But he’s all-in-all a pretty closed book, one whose pages are a little stuck together with shame and insecurities. Sometimes you just have to prise him open (figuratively, get your mind out of the gutter). “Stop stalling and just tell me,” you ease, pleading him with your eyes.

A sigh escapes his lips. He sits there, chin resting gently atop his fist, just thinking of how to word it. But words aren’t necessarily his strongest point. Inhaling deeply through his nose, Vince turns to you. “It’s a little hard to put into words what I do,” he says, “but, uh, here’s two. Hit. . . and man.”

You frown in confusion. “What? Do I look like I want a riddle? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Hitman,” he mumbles sheepishly, looking off to one side. “I’m-- I’m a hitman.”

Eyes widen, face drops as the penny does, and you glare at him like he’s simply a puppy who ripped up the toilet roll. _“What?? **Vincent!!** ”_

He quickly rises to his feet, holding his hands up defensively: “Honey, honey! Chill out, (Y/N), honey-- sweetie-- I can explain!”


End file.
